


The Poisoned Pawn

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bad Ending, Brother Feels, Just don't read this tbh, Kind of.... - Freeform, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poisoning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Difference, Threesome, but no one dies I stg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War lurks on the horizon. Loki may have found a way to save Asgard from defeat, but no one likes the price that must be paid.</p><p>or</p><p>A fic where Loki sacrifices himself to an alliance through marriage and Thor can only watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly talking about the third chapter here, but… Well. This is probably the most fucked up thing I’ve ever posted if not the most fucked up thing I’ve ever written. Very bad. T_T So, as a sort of disclaimer, I would like to remind all readers that the themes contained here are fiction and should be treated as fiction. Please, please review the warnings listed in the tags before reading. Thank you.~
> 
> Anyway much love to @Thor666 (FILTH on ao3) for being so amazingly supportive about this fic and for letting me bounce ideas off her. This is a gift for her, as she wanted a ThanosLoki arranged marriage au. Enjoy!!

“Check.”

Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, Loki turns to survey the board at the other side of the tent. Sure enough, the opposing bishop has shifted across the board to attack. A desperate move as far as he can see.

His own pieces lie in position for the endgame of his victory, and, as poor a player as his brother is, Thor has likely sensed the suspense of an attack. His move must be a distraction—unless Loki has missed a something significant. Unsure, his gaze flickers to assess the strategy of Thor’s expression.

His brother smiles, full of usual confidence—but his lips stretch falsely wide and his eyes shine with uncertainty. His free hand resting between crossed legs flexes into a fist at the attention. His brother is thinking. He’s doubting.

A bluff then.           

Loki returns his attention to the mirror and combs through another tangled clump of damp hair. “Knight to D-3.”

An audible click accompanies Thor moving the chess piece across the board, and once again Thor occupies himself with minutes of doubtful strategy.

Loki listens to the sound of the rain pelting against the roof of the tent. The storm that shadowed them ever since they left the palace seems to have caught them at last, barely a day out from their destination.

The strikes of thunder, the drone of rain, provide adequate background noise, but it’s not enough to quell the tension in their silence. The last time either of them spoke more than two sentences to each other hadn’t ended well—and that fight remains fresh on Loki’s mind.

He seeks comfort in the familiar sound of storm. As children, they would count at a flash in the sky, gauge the lightning’s distance, and then they would sit in thrill as it drew closer and closer, as the rain fell harder and harder. There were fights then, yes, but never more complicated than a bruised knee or a broken toy. Easily remedied.

Loki picks apart the memories for comfort. It discourages stray thoughts from lurking too close, keeps his mind from spiraling down paranoid loops of little use. He can pretend they are boys, that they have taken pause of a mere hunting trip to wait out the storm. Far from truth, but full of nostalgic distraction.

Yet even the best distraction can’t prevent his unfamiliar engagement ring from catching a knot in his hair. Loki curses. He twists to unravel the traitorous strands, seeking more to protect his hair than the ring.

“Loki?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, too quickly.

A flash of thunder follows. Likely a testament to his brother’s mood.

Loki focuses on disentangling his hand, and as soon as it’s free, he wishes only to glower at the emerald, unwelcome on his ring finger. He tries to cool his features and soothe his breathing because he knows Thor is watching and Thor will renew their argument if given the opportunity. Only when his face clears of the distress does he chance a glance towards the chess table.

Thor doesn’t look fooled. His smile has dimmed, and his normally bright eyes have narrowed. Loki sighs.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” As Thor speaks, his tone lowers deliberately into something soft, gentle, the sound a healer would make as it approaches a wounded predator.

Loki forces a transparent smile.

They’ve already talked circles around the predicament. Every time a courier returned with a letter, every time an advancement in arranging the marriage was made, Thor would fight and plead and beg. He remembers the day the arrangement was sealed, a date set, Thor spent hours shouting, and he wouldn’t speak to Loki for days afterward.

And Loki is in no mood for such a fight. Not on what could be their last days together. “Don’t have to do what?” he asks, innocent as ever. Before Thor can speak, he pointedly scans the chess game. “Have you made your move yet? Come now, less talking, more thinking.”

Thor turns to the board and moves a stray pawn, rather than save his queen. After taking his turn, he gives Loki a hard look. “The marriage,” he says plainly. “It is not your duty, nor is it too late to change your mind.”

Loki’s eyes train on the mirror as if to assess his appearance, but it’s an act. And an unconvincing one. He clears his throat and retrieves his comb. “Rook to F-5, taking your queen,” he says simply. He doesn’t put the comb through his hair until he hears the chess pieces clinking obediently, just loud enough to exceed the sound of rain.

The answering quiet lasts a short time, and Loki prays his brother took the hint.

But Thor only moves the same pawn another step forward before watching Loki again. Were it anyone else, Loki would accuse him of spite. “Loki,” his brother says, gentle. “Father knows a war was only a matter of time. If your refusal starts that war, then so be it. We will fight.”

Loki bars his teeth in what should be a smile, but his reflection resembles more of a sneer. “ _When_ my refusal starts a war, you mean.” He takes a shaky breath. “I will not be held accountable.”

“This—” Thor’s face visibly strains as he searches for an adequate word. “This plan, or whatever you’re doing, it was _your_ idea. Neither Father nor I expected it of you. Failing to take action—an action that _jeopardizes_ your life, need I remind you—does not make you accountable for this. Father has—we have already prepared for a war.”

“I see,” Loki says, falsely light. “Have you also prepared to lose?”

Predictably Thor’s expression tightens. No response follows.

Loki takes the opportunity to set his comb aside and approach the chess game. He forsakes his primary plan for victory and focuses instead on how his moves can distract Thor, how they can humiliate and _hurt_. With a vicious smirk, he tucks his knight deep into Thor’s defenses. “Check.”

His smirk fades when he catches unmistakable _concern_ lining Thor’s stare, rather than the familiar rage.

“We won’t lose,” Thor says, but his voice lacks confidence.

“I know hope when I see it,” Loki says. “Almost as well as I know the absence of.” Loki taps his finger against the edge of the board to call Thor’s attention. “ _Check._ ”

Thor moves his king one space to the left. “If you truly recognize the absence of hope, then you’ll know what I see when I look at your face. Forgive me for disliking the sight.” With a sigh, Thor presses hands together as if for warmth, but Loki knows it’s more likely for comfort. “Do you really think a King who would slaughter innocent children, burn through fields of—”

Loki moves his rook. “Check.”

Frustration bursts through Thor’s throat, and he unsurprisingly moves his king to the side once more. “Listen to me. You have no guarantees he will follow the terms of any treaty once it is set. Even so, the treaty doesn’t contain any terms to protect you. Are you not understanding this?”

Silent, Loki moves his rook a second time and stares solely at the board, waiting for Thor’s turn.

“He could gut you,” Thor says as if it’s not already obvious. “He could torture you. Rape you.” At a sharp glare from Loki, Thor shifts his pawn forward once again before continuing. “How can you ask me to bring you into—into _that_ —” his voice breaks “—and leave you there?”

“Because it’s not your choice. You know that I’ll go alone if I have to, Thor. My plan, my marriage, _my_ choice,” Loki hisses. He scans the board before thrusting his knight into the center of the attack. “Check.”

Thor shifts his king another space, and—oh, Loki wets his lips. He’ll have his brother. Next turn. He shifts his bishop to make one last adjustment to prevent any escape, and then his eyes train on Thor’s. He seethes with triumph, lured by the premature taste of victory.

“It’s your move,” he says.

Thor doesn’t spare a look to the board. Sympathy weighs heavy on the lines at the corners of his brother’s eyes, on the wrinkles creasing his forehead. He smiles, gentle and terribly _sad_ , and Loki wants to carve the ugly display of pity out of his brother’s features for good. “Loki,” Thor says, “this isn’t about your heritage, is it?”

Loki’s heart throbs in his chest. His throat aches. “ _Your move_ ,” he repeats.

“You always overestimate your ability,” Thor says. “You always neglect everything else when you set forth with a plan.” Moving his pawn one final step forward barely requires Thor a glance. His brother tips the pawn sideways in their traditional marking of a promoted queen. “Checkmate.”

Loki slams his palms into the bottom of the board.

Pawns and bishops and knights scatter every direction on the rug. The pieces that land in his lap, Loki shoves away. He stands, paces to the front flap of the tent, and sits to stare into the stormy sky, to wonder why in the world Thor questions his motives when the answer lies at his feet.

He’s flawed. Hopeless. Broken. Stuck with a family—no, a _kingdom_ —of prodigies, of warriors, of champions.

It’s simple logic to consider needs of many over needs of few, and if one Asgardian must be married ( _sacrificed_ , he thinks) to save the kingdom, then why shouldn’t it be him? He, who was never one of them in the first place.

Thor’s arm curls around Loki’s waist as he joins him, and Loki forces himself not to lash out. His brother only means well. And it’s a far cry from the persistence silence Thor used on him the last time.

They sit quiet for a time. Wind hurls the raindrops into Loki’s face, and the chill in the air bites at his fingers, his toes. Beside him, Thor succumbs first to shivering.

Not for the first time, Loki wonders if he inherited a certain steeliness against the cold from his mother race, the ones who thrived in ice and snow, the ones whose skin evolved permanently into a different hue. The thought swells in his throat.

“It’s not because of my heritage,” he says finally.

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s close.

Perhaps if he’d never discovered his true ancestry, perhaps if the lie still protected him—perhaps he might still believe himself to be salvageable. Perhaps he would have thought his life equal to the lives of his people. Maybe then, the idea of securing a treaty by marriage might never have crossed his mind. Maybe . . .

Thor shifts closer. “Will you look at me?”

Tears blur the edges of his vision, and Loki doesn’t dare to turn.

But Thor lifts hands to cup the set of Loki’s jaw, and Loki has no choice but to follow the lead and give Thor sight of the shine tainting his eyes. A couple tears trickle over his eyelashes and blend into the streaks of rain.

“You’re . . . important . . . to us, to all of us.” Thor pauses.

His brow wrinkles with dissatisfaction as he churns through his thoughts, and Loki relishes the closeness between them as he longs for Thor’s tempting lips, scopes the shadows embellishing his collarbone, his Adam’s apple. Endless comforts he’ll never get the chance to touch, to kiss, ever again.

A moment later, Thor’s eyes clear, and he trains his stare on Loki. “You’re irreplaceable. To _me_ ,” he says. “I love you, and I will support you, but I will not lose you for the wrong reason.”

Drawing back, Loki huffs a dying laugh. “It’s too late. We’re a day out once the rain clears. The agreements have already been made, and the treaty signed on our side. People at home, your friends even—they’re so very relieved. I can’t abandon this.”

Thor’s eyebrows draw together. “You _can_. It’s never too late. Not when we reach the kingdom. Not during the wedding or after, during the feast. Not even a year from now if you must. All you have to do is ask me. We can figure it out.”

Loki shakes his head. “You said it yourself, I’m not one to stray from my course.”

Thor runs his hand down from his shoulder to his waist and holds him there, tight and possessive, in a way he hasn’t since—since their last time together. “That’s what worries me.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

A flash of lightning splits the sky. Seconds pass before the thunder follows, its low rumble rolling through the air.

The downturn of the storm implies anger, but after the chess game Loki knows better than to misjudge the expression of Thor’s emotions. Raindrops that could just as well be tears mark his brother’s face, too.

Resigned, Thor releases his hold on Loki’s waist. “How will you protect yourself?”

“I’m hardly helpless.”

“Hardly.” Thor smiles wearily. “And yet I remain unassured.”

Loki hesitates.

Long ago, Loki trusted Thor with his deepest secret—his practice of sorcery. Over decades, his brother has proven his trust is unassailable, that he cherishes Loki’s confidence, that he would take the knowledge to the grave under pain of any circumstances.

This secret though—this one is different.

Loki bites his tongue, but one look at his brother’s face, tired and worried and _loving_ , is enough to break his reluctance. He searches their surroundings, checking with all senses, including his magic, that no eyes will pry. Then he lifts his gloved hands and tears the edges of space to reveal the glow of the bluish prize in his hands.

Thor’s eyes widen. “The casket! You— _you_ have the cask—”

“Shh.”

Just as quickly, the casket vanishes between the folds of space at a swift movement from his hands. When he finishes the spell, he checks his surroundings a second time. Only once his magic assures they are alone does he glance at Thor. His brother’s eyes brim with _hope_ for the first time since the threat of war began.

“Asgard declared it lost,” Thor says, voice hushed. “Father and I—we looked everywhere after the war, but we couldn’t find even a trace.”

“I know,” Loki says. “I meant so.”

“The marriage is a ruse,” Thor says. It’s not a question. “You plan to fight him.”

Loki gives his brother a small, private smile. “I plan to _kill_ him.”

Another flash, another rumble of thunder, but this one rings of thrill.

Thor tugs his brother forward into a fierce hug, and Loki buries his face in the finite supply of warmth from his brother’s shoulder. After all, he is a liar by nature. Lies of truth or lies of omission—they both serve their purpose. Thor rarely thinks ahead, and now is no exception.

Killing Thanos may end the threat to Asgard, but Thor doesn’t realize how wishful it is—to presume escaping an enemy kingdom possible after murdering their king.

The marriage will bring Loki close enough to strike.

His lie will ensure Thor is safe.

…

The city of Sanctuary looks as unimpressive as Loki predicted.

The dull light of lanterns does little to illuminate tall towers of black stone, the empty stretch of streets, the bare windows.

Even in the middle of day, rays of sun cannot penetrate the dark storm clouds hovering in the sky. Loki recognizes it as the work of magic. He idly wonders at the power it would take a sorcerer to keep the city in darkness and what purpose it could serve.

The streets lie barren of any kind of life, other than the occasional raven or rat. Sometimes the wide eyes of children peek from the windows that they pass. Older adults hush the curious questions and inevitably shoo their children out of sight. They look discontent—afraid even. Whether of the sight of Asgardians or of something else is unclear.

The guards sent to escort them seem unperturbed by the state of things, which leads Loki to believe that the lack of activity is not a novelty. Regardless of his and his brother’s presence, the city would still resemble a graveyard.

Thor keeps notably close to Loki’s side during their trek through ghostly roads and up flights of stairs, and Loki finds himself grateful for the protection. The surroundings have thinned his nerves. Every shifting shadow from an alleyway churns beneath his skin, every raven that swoops too close for comfort has him nearly stumbling backward.

When they reach the inner palace, the foreboding atmosphere doesn’t diminish in the slightest. Inside, its halls are darker, torches sparser, and the sudden lack of rodents unsettling. Locked chamber doors haunt the long, twisting hallways. Cobwebs stretch along every archway, and dust coats every empty space.

No one cares for the city. No one seems to venture beyond the safety of their homes, and the weight of that fear falls almost palpably.

Swallowing, Loki tries to imagine a time when he could call such a place his home.

If Thor sees his hands trembling a moment later, he doesn’t mention it.

The guards slow as they approach tall arching doors. Hooded figures pull the ornate handles, and the hinges creak as the doors part to allow entrance to the hall.

Reluctantly Loki leads the way into hall of the enemy king.

Inside, no torches illuminate the shadowy corners. The only source of light shines dimly through large windows, leaving silver patches on the stairs to the dais. The silhouette of a figure stands at one of the windows, to the side of his empty throne.

Loki’s nerves thrum. This is the king. This is the man he will marry.

With the king’s back turned to them, Loki can’t accurately judge his strength, other than the fact that he’s large. Larger than Loki had imagined, larger than even Thor. The mere realization sends new tremors rushing through his fingers. His heart flutters wildly.

 _You asked for this,_ he reminds himself. _You knew what you were asking, and you would do it again._

Without his brother, Loki admits to himself that he might have ran—ran like the coward lurking dormant in his Jotun blood. Thor’s presence at his side is the only reason he can keep his head high and his face neutral while he walks forward.

When they reach the base of the steps, the guards call for the king’s attention, and Thanos turns.

Loki feels a shiver roll down his spine.

Scars of age and battle chisel lines into the man’s skin— _bluish skin, like yours_ , his treacherous mind supplies. Golden plates of armor adorn much of his body, but Loki can tell the king’s skin is rough, calloused, perhaps study as a rock. He notes the breadth of his shoulders easily twice that of Thor’s and hands large enough to crush Loki’s skull in his palm.

His feet twitch once more with the urge to run, to never look back at the glowing violet eyes locked onto them. Instead, he flourishes into a respectful bow.

In his peripheral, he sees that Thor does not. His brother’s gaze remains fiercely attached to the king in a clear challenge.

“Your Majesty,” Loki says. “We have arrived as the delegation from Asgard to secure a treaty between our kingdoms.”

Thanos’ gaze shift as he scopes the both of them. “Which one?”

His voice thunders in its echoes across the great hall, and Loki catches Thor’s hand clench around the hilt of his hammer. “Beg your pardon?” Loki asks, even though a part of him _knows_.

“Which one of you is mine?”

Loki’s heartbeat quickens. Blessedly Thor somehow manages to hold his silence.

“ _After_ you have signed an agreeable treaty between our kingdoms,” Loki says, “it is I who will marry you.”

Thanos doesn’t seem to notice his change in wording. The king takes two giant steps down from the dais and stops to regard Loki with cool calculation. “Good,” he says, even though indifference masks his face and tone entirely. “Of the two, you seem more . . . persuadable.”

Heart failing, Loki stills under the king’s stare.

From the side, Thor releases a low growl of warning, and Loki finds himself relieved to hear his brother’s volume easily matching that of Thanos. “As princes of Asgard, we demand adequate hospitality while you review the terms of the treaty,” his brother says. “Once and only once all parties are satisfied, I will give my blessing for the wedding, but until then, I expect my brother to be treated with respect.”

An amused smile thins the lines of Thanos’ lipless mouth. “The guards will show you to adequate chambers,” he says to Thor. “As for your brother,” and he pauses on the word, his eyes glinting, “I assure you he will be well looked after.”

Thor steps forward, just far enough to stand subtly between Loki and the king. “No. No, he stays with me.”

“Until the marriage,” Thanos agrees.

Thor’s fist shifts readily over his hammer. “I have yet to find any of us satisfied with the terms.”

“Thor,” Loki warns.

His brother falls silent, but he does not drop the challenging stare.

Loki sighs as he returns his attention to Thanos.  “Forgive him, but I must say he is right. You have not yet looked over the treaty to review our terms.” After unfastening it from his belt, Loki slips past Thor to offer the roll of parchment to Thanos.

Thanos makes no move to accept the offer. Instead, his eyes roam over Loki’s body ruthlessly.

Color rises high in his cheeks, and Loki’s arm twitches with impatience. “The treaty,” he says, louder. “Your signature for my hand. I imagine you will want time to read it over.”

At last Thanos takes one final step forward. As he reaches to take the scroll, his calloused hand deliberately delays to caress the length of Loki’s finger, and with their hands aligned Loki sees how small he is, how much Thanos absolutely dwarves him. The moment the treaty rests secured in Thanos’ grip, Loki draws his hand away as if burned.

He has to remind himself—physical strength means nothing. Only a couple know that Loki practices sorcery. He has the element of surprise, and Thanos will have no defense against the arts of magic.

Only somewhat assured, Loki focuses on drawing breaths to soothe his racing heart.

When he looks, he sees that Thanos’ eyes have never left his face. “Tonight,” the king says.

While a part of Loki hoped— _still_ hopes that Thanos will want to negotiate the treaty, that the wedding will delay for another few days, precious few days he can spend with his brother—the suddenness of affairs is not altogether surprising. Loki nods, bowing his head with false respect.

“If you agree to the terms,” he says, “then yes. Tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thor’s boots wear holes into the floor as he rounds from corner to corner of the chambers lent to them for the night. Loki has lost count of the amount of laps Thor has paced, the number of times Thor has circled through the same concerns aloud to himself.

For now, the moment has fallen quiet. Loki hopes that the tide of Thor’s anger, loud and furious and vast, has washed over, but then he sees a new wave of fury crossing Thor’s face, his steps falling harsher on the floor.

Shoulders stiff and sore, Loki braces for another bout.

“How could he have spoken to you like that?” Thor roars, but the higher octave in his voice betrays his unease. “As if, what, you had already been married? Even then, a marriage of convenience still requires a certain level of respect.” When he runs out of floor, Thor wastes no time in changing direction. “He spoke as though he _owned_ you!”

Cringing at the volume, Loki shrinks into himself, hands clasped tight in his lap. The emerald adorning his ring finger meets his stare, and Loki wants to rip it off and throw it somewhere far away, somewhere he’ll never have to see it again.

Thor’s ceaseless rant fades into background noise as Loki fights to remind himself—he can’t. There’s no choice. He has to marry or face the slaughter of the citizens of Asgard. He can no longer hesitate. In the heart of the enemy kingdom, his focus needs to remain fixed on his plan. He must secure the treaty, he must seal the marriage, and he must ensure that Thor _walks away_.

“—and his utter disregard for your agenda,” Thor is saying. “Does he even consider the treaty in seriousness? Does he even—”

Loki sinks his fingernails into his palms, desperate to tone out Thor’s words. He knows that Thor only speaks them on his behalf—because his brother wants to share in Loki’s stress and this is the only way he knows how. But Loki’s composure withers in the recounting of events, and his strength steadily wanes.

He wants so desperately to think of other, pleasant things, but he can’t. Even if Thor would let it be, every other memory comes tainted. Every other thought disperses at Thor’s laps around the room.

Even the precious memory of their first kiss, the one they shared as boys late at night in the shadows of an abandoned corridor, lips hot with the passion from a prior fight—it doesn’t come with the steady vibrancy that it normally does.

Instead, longing claws at his throat. Those days are over.

He won’t be able to murder Thanos without consummating the marriage, not without threatening Thor’s safety. And if he even manages to escape the aftermath of such a crime, will he still remember his brother’s love with peace in his heart?

“—and the way he _touched_ you.”

Startled out of his trance, Loki grits his teeth against the sudden well of tears. He remembers that moment well, remembers the foreignness of rough calloused skin stroking his finger and the fear he felt.

Mostly, he remembers the proportions of Thanos’ hand compared to his. The image rolls in his stomach.

“It’s sickening!” Thor continues. “Before even _reading_ the terms, he touches you, and so possessively! What kind of man—”

“Thor?” Loki finally says, weak.

Thor whirls around to face him. Naked concern fills his brother’s face, and Loki can’t find the relief that the look normally gives him.

“Thor, can you . . .” What? Stop repeating the excruciating thoughts from which Loki can’t find reprieve? Hold him while he anticipates what might be the second worst experience of his life? Fly them away from here, from Asgard, from everyone they know? Defeated, Loki clears his throat. “Can you sit down?”

Wordlessly Thor takes three large steps and sits down beside Loki on the edge of the bed. His arm wraps around Loki’s waist in a familiar gesture, and Loki turns to bury his face in Thor’s shoulder. He doesn’t cry, but he comes close.

“Let us speak of something else,” Loki murmurs.

Thor’s head rests atop his own. His hot breath, uneven and harsh, ruffles through strands of Loki’s dark hair. “Loki.” Thor’s voice strains in a frantic plea. “You don’t have to do this.”

Loki sinks teeth into the tip of his tongue because gods, if Thor tries to persuade him _now_ , Loki might actually fall for it. And he can’t—he really, really can’t. “ _Please_ ,” Loki breathes. “Speak of something else.”

Silence falls.

Thor squeezes Loki’s hip and rubs soothing circles into Loki’s wrist with his other hand. After an eternity, he laughs, breathless and utterly lacking in mirth. “I cannot think of anything else,” he admits.

Then Loki does cry.

Neither can he.

Thor tightens his grasp as Loki’s shoulders quake with muffled sobs. “Norns, Loki. Let me help you.”

 _Yes_ , he wants to cry. _Yes, please help me._ “How?” he breathes instead.

Considering, Thor shifts his hand to rest on Loki’s shoulder. “Well, we’re here, aren’t we? We know where he is,” Thor says, his voice gentle. “Why must you wait to strike when you could now? With me? We could be well away before night falls.”

“No.” With great effort, Loki regains his calm and wipes away stray tears. “No, he’ll be expecting that. I only have one chance to do this right.”

“Then tonight,” Thor presses. “After the wedding. When you retire and—” Thor pauses unsteady at the thought. “I’ll come to help you finish it.”

Woodenly Loki shakes his head. “He’ll expect that too. He’ll have eyes on you.”

An uneasy look crosses Thor’s face. “But that _is_ when you’re planning to do it? When you retire?”

Loki remains quiet.

“Loki, you’re—you will end this tonight. Won’t you?”

“I can’t,” he admits. “Not until first light. Not until you’re gone.”

Eyes wide with disbelief, Thor tears his hand away.

A ragged sigh passes through Loki’s lips. He turns his head and studies the tiles of the floor. There’s a reason he hadn’t gone out of his way to tell Thor the details, because he knew as he knows now—the only way to do this _and_ to protect Thor is something that Thor will not easily allow.

“You,” Thor starts. His voice tangles into a low frustrated growl. “You’re going to—you’ll let him—” His brother stops there, and Loki hangs his head while he waits to hear the word Thor chooses. It never comes. Instead, Thor sucks in a ragged breath and clasps an unforgiving hold on Loki’s arm. “He’ll hurt you,” Thor pleads. “Even if he’s gentle, he’ll—”

New tears fill the bottoms of Loki’s eyes.

“ _Why_?” Even as a whisper, Loki hears the unmistakable fierceness in Thor’s voice.

“If you leave and I submit, all will seem well. He’ll let his guard down.”

Thor’s grip tightens. “And what if he doesn’t? How long will you wait?”

Cold resentment washes through him. He wants to confess his fears to his brother—the ones that doubt his ability to pull it off, the ones that fear he’ll never get the chance or that the chance will come at too high a price. The ones that promise him death if he succeeds.

The fear that he’ll never see his brother again after tonight.

He wants Thor to comfort those fears and appease his doubts, but Thor will take any opening to persuade him not to go through with this.

As if Loki _likes_ this situation any more than Thor does. As if Loki doesn’t share the same hesitations, the same desperate desire to flee from here and never return. Yes, his brother’s companionship will surely come with strings attached. Just how is it that Loki must be the one to stay strong in the face of his own undoing?

Beside him, Thor fidgets without an answer. “Loki—”

Urgent, Loki lifts his head to kiss his brother, and Thor meets him, furious and hard. It’s not enough. It’s not enough to forget the marriage lurking hours ahead nor drown out Loki’s unease. He deepens the kiss in effort to _make_ it enough.

At the very least, Thor has shut up.

Loki circles his arms around his brother’s neck, tangles fingers in his hair, and crushes their lips together. He feels Thor’s grip tug him close, and their chests meet, the clothes baring their skin from touching. Already the temperature of the room soars. Thor slips hot hands up his back, and his tunic rides up, tight at his arms.

A moan hums through his throat, vibrating through their lips, and Thor tugs him closer, clearly beckoning Loki onto his lap.

Just from that subtle hint, the meaning behind the kiss shifts into something deeper, dangerous, and incredibly tempting. Reluctantly Loki breaks away. Heavy pants of air fly in and out of his mouth, making his voice feel breathy and light. “We shouldn’t,” he gasps.

“Why not?” Thor growls. He lowers his head and sucks possessive kisses under Loki’s jaw and down his neck, and Loki prays to the heavens that Thor has the common sense to not leave any lasting marks.

“If anyone, ah, finds out—”

Thor barely stops to speak. “We’ve always done this without anyone finding out.”

And Loki can’t argue with that. Not today.

He shifts to straddle Thor’s lap and that’s when he feels the bulge under Thor’s pants pressed hard up against his ass. Satisfied, he moans. The leather of his own pants feels unnecessarily tight and hot, but he knows they can’t undress. The risk of someone coming in and finding them is too much.

Thor’s thoughts seem to run a similar path, for he groans and curses under his breath. Loki gently tugs his brother’s head to press a reassuring kiss over his lips. He doesn’t want either of them to think of the marriage, of where they are or why—only that his brother is right here and _his_.

“Make us forget,” Loki whispers with their shared breath.

Thor whines. Beseeching blue eyes fix on Loki’s face. “I can’t forget,” he says. It’s a final plea for Loki to back out of the arrangement.

Loki cups his hands around either side of Thor’s face. “Then make _me_ forget.”

Thor’s face falls. His hands slide down and crush the bones of Loki’s hips as if afraid to let go. Still, Thor compliantly rocks them together, and Loki feels the swell of Thor’s cock dig deep at the seam of his pants over and over, feels his own cock beneath his clothes press hard against Thor’s stomach.

His mind fills with relief. “Faster,” he says.

Thor obeys.

Loki feels their hips meet quicker and harder, and finally, finally he’s at peace.

…

Later, when they’ve taken turns washing in the bathing chamber and changing into appropriate attire for the night, Thor approaches Loki where he stands at the mirror. His brother places two strong hands on his shoulders, and Loki leans into his touch.

They stare at their reflection for several minutes.

Loki realizes that he’s content, despite everything. Their last time together—it was enough.

“When it’s done,” Thor says, “we won’t hide anymore.”

It takes Loki some time to understand Thor means _when Thanos is dead_. He smiles with calculated sadness. “You know we have to,” he says for appearance. There won’t be an _after_ for him. “What would Father think?”

“He’ll understand in time,” Thor promises.

Loki’s smile fades into seriousness. He stares at Thor through the mirror for a while and memorizes every precious feature of his brother’s face—the exact hue of blue in his eyes, the wrinkles at the corners, the hairs of Thor’s beard. The pressure of Thor’s hands on his shoulders.

He’ll need the memory.

“Alright,” Loki says.

“We’ll tell them?”

He nods. “We’ll tell them.”

Thor squeezes Loki’s shoulders and then goes to pull on his boots. His brother’s reflection still looks sad and worried and afraid even—but there’s a glimmer of hope there, for a future that Thor thinks he can look forward to after this nightmare passes.

Loki tries not to let guilt show on his face.

There is magic here, strong and excessive enough to plague the skies with eternal night. Any hopes Loki had to escape after killing Thanos have already been dashed.

He wishes that Thor hadn’t fought so much to talk him out of it and had simply embraced their last few months together. But it will be worth it. Centuries have passed since Asgard faced so grave a threat, and centuries will pass again when Loki ends this one. Thor will live long past the death this war would have caused him.

Loki gives his reflection one final assessment, adjusts his collar, straightens his sleeves. Then he turns to face Thor. “It’s time,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final warning for noncon!

Loki sips his cup of bitter wine all throughout the night in a vain attempt to relax.

Nobles and warriors and other attendees sit at tables full of extravagant cuisine and drink. Soft music plays in the background, and some of the guests have already risen to dance in elegant arcs.

All of it, the noise of the feast, the music, the atmosphere—it reminds him of a regular celebration in the palace of Asgard. Yet something about it feels wrong, forced. Their smiles don’t match their eyes, the cheer in their voices falls dim.

The tension fills Loki with a sense of dread. His nerves fly on edge at every bellow of laughter and every pause in the tranquil music. And he hates watching these people even pretending to enjoy themselves. Those who would see Asgard in flames. Apparently even the blackest of hearts are capable of merriment.

“Was your meal to your satisfaction?” Thanos asks.

Loki glances at his plate before him, untouched for the most part. His stomach turns at the thought of food as it mingles with the knowledge of what he must do tonight. With a breath, he reaches simply for his cup. “Yes, thank you,” he says.

In the silence that follows, Loki scans the tables to ensure nothing has changed. His brother remains alone at a table near the other guests, his obsessive gaze standing out among the sea of disinterested faces.

Quietly Loki sighs.

Thor wanted to sit up beside him and Thanos, but he’s safer with the rest of the guests. Besides, away from any suspicious eyes, Thor can leave the city the moment Loki retires with Thanos. Loki will be able to strike so much sooner.

After a moment, Thanos follows his gaze. “He seems to care deeply for you. Overly so.”

Loki swallows a mouthful of wine. Irritation gripes at his tongue, but he forces the urge to defend himself and his brother away. It will do no good to alienate his spouse before he has the chance to kill him. “He’s my brother,” Loki explains with minimum politeness. “I’ve never known life without him, nor he without me.”

Thanos sets down his silverware and leans back in his chair. “But he is not your brother. Is he?”

Loki’s pulse quickens. It’s surprising for Thanos to know such a detail—his parents kept his heritage hushed and secret from many for decades, even those to whom they were closest. Loki himself didn’t know until a few years ago, and Thor, not for much later. He hates to hear that the rumor of his illegitimate birth has traveled so far.

“So many Asgardians perished in the war against Jotunheim,” Thanos continues. “Odd that their prince would love you in spite of what you are. The son of his enemy.”

Quickly Loki schools any visible emotion on his face and forces his lips to spread in a thin smile. “Is it odd?” he replies.

Thanos hums, as if to himself. “You love him as well even though you share no bond of any kind. Why is that?”

The question falls too near to the ongoing struggle in his heart. Loki waits. Speaking too soon will provoke his temper, and he has to remind himself that soon this creature will be dead and none of this will matter. “I thought we were brothers for much of my life,” he says at last. “Habit of thought is always the most difficult to break.”

“Yes,” Thanos muses. “Yes, such an act requires discipline.”

Silence falls between them once more. Loki’s eyes wander again to find Thor.

His brother has broken his stare to eat a second helping of roasted boar. The same serving that Thanos offered Loki numerous times over the night to no avail.

As his gaze idles around the rest of the feast hall, he notes that most other guests have no helpings of boar on their plates. The guests who do haven’t eaten a single bite of it. He shifts to see whether Thanos ate any of his helping and finds it untouched on his plate.

Unease prickles along the back of his neck. He flips through excuses to stand and speak with his brother when Thanos slides a hand on his knee.

Loki stiffens.

The hand slides upward. Fingers curl around the inside of his thigh, and a large palm presses against his hipbone.

The sense of dread from before doubles. Loki doesn’t dare move.

“I would think,” Thanos says, “that discipline of the mind would come easily to a sorcerer such as you.”

Loki’s heart stops. His lungs ice over.

All around him, noise of the feast—the sound of drunkards cheering, the music playing in the background, the buzz of conversation—drowns out all of his other senses. He can’t for the life of him hear the sound of his own breathing.

“How do you know I’m a sorcerer?” Loki asks in barely more than a whisper.

Thanos smiles. “It would seem you have much to learn about me.”

The hand slides up to palm at his crotch.

A shudder jolts through Loki’s body, even as he fights to keep his expression neutral. Thor’s attention weighs on his face, attention that Loki fears will move his brother to attack if he openly shows any discomfort.

And Norns, Thanos _knows_. Somehow he knows Loki is a sorcerer, and Loki cannot let the owner of such a secret survive after tonight. He _has_ to see this through. He just has to last through the feast, through the night, until Thor can leave.

Thanos gropes him punishingly, each press hinting just as much pain as pleasure.

Loki blinks hard, breathes through his nose, exhales through his mouth. He—he can’t think like this, with so much stress from all angles. “Stop.”

Thanos doesn’t.

Loki sucks in a breath. His hands squeeze the armrests of the chair. “Not here. Not—” Thanos presses harder, and Loki’s breath hitches, his cock jumps with unwelcome interest. “Please don’t do this here.”

“Is it the eyes of your brother that discomfort you so?” Thanos asks with a dark smile. “Are you afraid he will put an end to this?”

Fear flies down his spine. It could be coincidental, but Loki swears the remark— _all_ of what Thanos has said—could only have come from someone following along through his thoughts. Presence in the mind is rare though not foreign to sorcerers, but Loki would have sensed an intrusion, _should_ have sensed it.

“Please,” Loki gasps. “Let us go to—to your chambers. I won’t deny you there. Just . . .” And as he speaks, he thinks with all of his might, _how do you know of my magic?_

Thanos’ hand stops moving. He hums thoughtfully and shifts to face Loki more directly.

“The same way I know you are a Jotun,” Thanos answers, even as Loki senses _nothing_ in his mind. “The same way I know that my size frightens you, that _I_ frighten you. The same way I know that you’ve been assessing my character, calculating for weaknesses, so that tomorrow morning you may slit my throat while I sleep.”

Horror floods Loki’s chest. He probes with his senses, but he can’t find any sign that Thanos lurks in the corner of his mind, any sign that Thanos possesses any sort of magic at all. And that—that can only mean—he underestimated.

Thanos’ thin lips part to reveal a white set of teeth spread in a grin. “Did you truly believe I would let you get away with any of this?”

At once Thanos’ power reveals itself. Loki’s pulse jumps when he feels the weight of his magic suffocating in his chest—like an iron fist has its fingers curled around his throat and it squeezes and crushes and—

Loki chokes on a sob.

He can’t _breathe_.

Desperate for air, he scans the hall for something, anything that can be used to distract Thanos.

The people of Sanctuary don’t notice anything amiss. Their music keeps playing, their elders keep drinking, their dancers keep dancing—Loki’s eyes flicker to and fro the ends of the room in a panic.

“Your treaty means nothing,” Thanos says. “Your kingdom will fall, and all of the ones you hoped to protect will die by my hand.”

Just then Loki locks gazes with Thor, who has never stopped watching. Loki’s plan to kill Thanos is out of the question now. But maybe Thor can. Thor. Thor, whose power is a match for no one.

The fist around his magic tightens, and Loki muffles a startled cry. “But first you have something I want,” Thanos says. His hand clenches hard at Loki’s thigh. “Give it to me, and you may have mercy.”

The pressure on his magic lifts, only slightly enough to allow him to answer.

Loki uses the chance to stare straight at Thor. His lips part to mouth the words _help me_ , and Thor’s face clears of any uncertainty.

His brother stands and nears the table.

Immediately the roar of white noise returns to pound in his ears, in time with his heart, and he can feel his magic withering under the weight of Thanos’ power. He can’t waste even the slightest energy to speak nor move.

Thor stops when he reaches the opposite end of the table. Warning crackles dangerously in his eyes. “Is everything alright here?”

 _No_. Loki shakes his head. His mind swims as it lurches from side to side.

Thor’s eyes fall to where Thanos’ hand rests on his thigh. His brother shifts to hold the hilt of Mjolnir at the ready, and he looks at Thanos with all of the hatred that festered for months. “You would be wise,” he says, low and dark, “to send my brother and I on our way.”

Thanos laughs as he rises to his feet. “I do not think you’re in any position to make such a demand of me.”

The sound of his chuckle echoes within the walls of Loki’s head, as his magic gradually, gradually _drowns._ Urgent, Loki stares at Thor.

And that’s when he notices. A grey pallor tints the color of his brother’s skin. His pupils look bloated, too large, even in this awful lack of night, and beads of sweat collect excessively along his temples.

All of his former unease returns with a vengeance. Loki opens his mouth to warn, but only a faint gasp escapes his throat.

Thor hears. In an instant his hammer bursts with lightning as he swings it up towards Thanos’ head.

Just as quickly, Thanos kicks the table hard into his brother’s gut. The force sends Thor flying meters across the room.

Screams of the other guests fill the hall. Dancers flee, instruments stop in abrupt discordant tunes, and other guests topple over the legs of tables and chairs as they scramble out of the way.

In the midst of the chaos, Thor stands. The starkness of his face is painfully visible now. One step forward sends him stumbling. His wrist catches on the table, and his other arm reaches for the base of a chair, but neither are enough to take his suddenly broken weight. Thor falls to all fours. His limbs flail to keep him upright.

“ _No_ ,” Loki croaks. He struggles forward in the direction of his brother, even as the pressure on his magic has his own legs wobbling beneath him.

Then Thanos snips the straining strings of Loki’s magic.

Loki doesn’t scream in pain, doesn’t hurl, doesn’t scream. Instead, his legs merely give out from under him, and he collapses to the floor, unable to process the vastness of the power that amputated his magic—just like that.

_His magic . . ._

Black spots blur his vision. His consciousness fades and bursts in waves.

By the time Loki manages to look up, he finds the hall deserted of all but Thanos holding his brother by the throat. Thor’s feet dangle off the floor, his hands claw at Thanos’ arm, his lips gradually pale.

Loki could roar with hatred fierce enough to topple an entire kingdom. Well aware of the small effort it would take Thanos to snap Thor’s neck, Loki bites his tongue of reckless rage. “Let him go,” Loki seethes. His eyes burn. “Whatever you want, I will give it to you if you just _let him go_.”

Thanos’ doesn’t move his gaze from Thor.

Still too wary to rise to his feet, he pushes himself into a low crouch. “You said it yourself. It’s not him you want, it’s _me_ , isn’t it?” A thread of panic weaves into his voice. “Let him go, and I won’t fight you.”

Thanos grabs one of Thor’s arms with his free hand, and Thor’s veins pulse visibly. With a jolt, Loki realizes it’s the same hand Thor would use to wield Mjolnir.

“I think not.” Thanos’ voice rumbles like a quake beneath the earth. “I want this one, too.” An audible crack splits the air, and Thor’s face contorts in pain, his captive arm falling limp as Thanos releases it.

Loki’s vision shines _red_.

Just as he coils, ready to fight, Thanos lets go of Thor’s throat.

That’s all Loki needs to charge forward and catch his brother before he hits the ground. He sweeps an arm to clear the nearby table of empty goblets and scattered plates and rests Thor’s body against the bare wood. Thor’s wrist flops limp against the table. His eyelashes flutter wildly as he chokes on the air.

“ _Breathe,_ ” Loki urges.

Thor’s eyes lock onto Loki, and they widen, large, with unclear meaning.

As Thanos steps up behind him, he thinks maybe Thor wanted him to run.

A huge hand slams against Loki’s back and pins him against the table, against Thor’s chest. The force knocks the wind from his lungs, and Thor’s choking turns to a hacking wheeze. Loki digs his elbows into the table and pushes with all of his might. He can’t overpower Thanos, but he can protect Thor from their weight.

“ _What do you want?_ ” Loki growls. Fear leaks traitorously into his voice.

“You know what I want, little prince,” Thanos says.

Loki blinks in the sudden clarity. “The casket . . .”

His brother’s hand darts to clutch his arm, and Loki sees his eyes, fierce and determined. His brother shakes his head no. And he’s right. Giving up the casket would be akin to handing Thanos victory over Asgard, and Loki may be afraid but if Thor—if Thor says he’s okay—

Thanos chuckles, the sound rolling over Loki’s stomach. “You will give it to me in the end. It’s only a matter of time.”

His palm presses harder, and Loki struggles to keep light on Thor’s chest.

“No,” he breathes.

His brother’s fingers dig into his forearm. Loki wants to wail _don’t look at me, don’t look at me_ , but huge hands running along his bare skin steal his voice. A giant finger rubs circles hard at his ass in a wordless threat, and he buries the terror in his face into Thor’s shoulder, where Thor won’t see.

“You’re so tense,” Thanos says, his voice significantly lowered. “Is this your first?”

And the answer should be no, would be no, but with Thanos—Loki feels it this time. Thanos no longer hides the way his overwhelming power scrounges through Loki’s mind for the answers he seeks.

Without magic Loki can’t fight it.

Without magic Loki can only let Thanos take it.

Hours ago when his brother and he savored their last throes of passion, the heat of Thor’s lips surging all the way through his chest, the crushing grip of Thor’s arms around his waist. It’s personal, private. Thanos rips the replayed memory from his mind as if it means nothing.

A cry tears through his throat.

Thor’s hold on his arm no longer feels comforting.

“Hmm,” and Thanos sounds so sickeningly amused, “that _is_ interesting. I suppose your _brother’s_ company is only appropriate.” His finger surges inside.

Loki yelps. Tears spill from his eyes and soak the cloth at Thor’s shoulder, and he can tell—from the way his brother tenses beneath him, from the way his brother’s breath baits, that Thor _knows_ what’s happening.

A second finger—Loki’s insides stretch to accommodate the pressure, and he fears. He fears the size that will inevitably claim him soon enough, he fears that his brother can’t breathe through the poison claiming his lungs, he fears that all of Asgard will perish for the mistake he made today.

If he had kept his mouth shut, if he had just let Thanos kill his magic without calling for help, then maybe, maybe Thor would have walked out of here. Maybe Asgard would not have lost its most prized warrior. If he just hadn’t _fought_.

A third finger joins the others, and Loki’s entire body stiffens.

Thanos’ hand on his back shifts to yank him up by the hair. “Let him see you,” Thanos says. “Let him see how _used_ you are. Doesn’t he like to see your face as you’re ravished? Is that not how it goes?”

Like a wounded animal, Thor roars, wordless and helpless beneath them.

Loki can barely contain his sobs. “Stop,” he cries, unsure whether the plea is meant for his brother or Thanos. “Stop.”

The pressure inside of him subsides. A glint of hope shoots through him, but instead he feels Thanos’ hard, unforgiving length pressing against his ass. Loki struggles. His limbs thrash, his heart pounds, and Thor can’t see this, _he can’t see this_ , but Thanos has both of them down and trapped. There’s nothing he can do.

Thanos shoves in, and Loki’s scream comes soundless.

It hurts.

He can’t—fit—can’t bear it.

His brother shifts under him. “Loki . . . look . . . at me.”

He can’t. He can’t face it.

“Lo . . . ki . . .”

Against his will Loki looks down.

He sees the empty glaze in his brother’s eyes, the gray wash to his face, the pinkish hue to his eyelids. He’s dying. He’s dying slowly. Loki’s heart flutters in his chest.

“Don’t,” Thor chokes, “give in.”

Loki sucks in a breath and forces his eyes away from Thor. Asgard, its people, his _soul_ be damned—he won’t let his brother die. “I’ll give you—” A gasp breaks his voice as Thanos shoves in deeper. “I’ll give it to you.”

Silent, Thanos curls a hand around Loki’s cock and pumps.

Robbed of breath, Loki squirms, but moving only intensifies an unwelcome heat that stirs in his belly. Helpless, Loki shifts his hands to feel Thor’s face and struggles not to sob at the raging fever that burns his fingertips.

“No no no,” Loki murmurs. “The casket, _I’ll give it to you!_ ”

But Thanos doesn’t answer or doesn’t care, and Thor’s grip on his arm falls. His eyes close. His breathing labors.

Something inside of Loki breaks. “Please.” He grits his teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “Please. Please—”

“Silence or I will kill him myself.”

Thanos continues to stroke his cock, and Loki can’t help but moan. Every single thrust lurches his ass forward and presses his cock against Thor’s thigh. Already he’s close, so close, and he _hates_ his body for being capable of feeling pleasure, of burning and pleading for release without his consent.

Without warning, a seizure stutters through Thor’s body.

The unexpected contact sends Loki over the edge, and he spends all over Thor’s pants. A terrible keen flies through Loki’s lips, even as Thor convulses right before his eyes. “H-He’s dying,” Loki pleads between broken moans and bursts of pleasure. “He’s _d-dy_ —”

Thanos’ hand releases Loki’s cock to smother his mouth.

Strained, his neck cranes for relief, even as Thanos thrusts again and again. He can no longer speak, no longer beg. The king’s hand only allows him muffled, panicked sobs as he watches Thor’s body finally lapse into a terrifying stillness.

Loki slips a hand over Thor’s wrist and presses his index finger into the skin.

A pulse flutters weakly.

He’s alive.

Overcome, Loki clenches his eyes shut and lets his head fall limp into Thanos’ hand.

It should be him. Just him. Poisoned and dying and suffering, and Thor should be far away in the palace of Asgard, mourning perhaps but unharmed—but no. Arrogant and foolish as ever, Loki wanted his last few days to end with the company of his brother. He supposes he got what he wanted. Now his brother will perish with him.

At last, Thanos’ rhythm breaks. His grunting pauses and his hand jerks Loki’s head at a painful angle. He thrusts deep once. Twice. Then his body heaves down on Loki’s—and Thor’s—and Loki prays for the next flicker of a pulse, for proof that Thor breathes.

After an eternity, Thanos pulls away.

Loki doesn’t have the presence of mind to move. Instead, his body collapses, and his cheek presses against Thor’s chest. At first, he struggles to find his mind, his voice. A single beat of Thor’s dragging heartbeat shudders Loki back to consciousness.

Head bowed, he pushes himself from the table. As he stands, his pants lag around his knees, and he mechanically tugs them back to his waist. “Please let me save him,” he says toneless.

“The casket first.”

Loki’s broken magic squeezes in his chest. Only a portion trickles in at a time. It’s too slow, too small to cast anything meaningful, so he waits until there’s enough for both—to summon the casket and to purge Thor of the lingering poison. Only then does he act.

The casket he drops swiftly on the edge of the table. In the next second, green tendrils of magic fly from his fingertips to Thor’s body as he lends his energy to his brother. His own heartbeat slows as Thor’s quickens, his magic tainted as it purifies the blood thrumming through Thor’s veins.

With so little reserves, the spell drains him. As soon as he sees color returning to Thor’s face and the rise and fall of his chest, Loki sinks to the floor.

His breath comes in short puffs. The shock and adrenaline wither away, leaving him with only a hollow shell devoid of feeling.

For the first time in his life, he actually wants to die.

“Guards,” Thanos calls.

Loki has no capability to flinch at the volume of the voice, no energy to cower.

The guards enter. Bent over the blue glow of the casket, Thanos spares only a fleeting gesture to his brother. “Lock this one away.” His eyes briefly flicker to Loki. “Bring the other to my chambers.”

When the guards come for him, Loki doesn’t fight.

...

He can’t visit Thor for two full days.

Very quickly Loki learns to hold his tongue. Demanding and asking and begging does nothing at best and earns Thanos’ wrath at worst. He spends the days senseless and unfeeling, suspended in his empty thoughts while he waits between the times that Thanos to return to his rooms.

When he’s finally allowed to visit Thor, it’s only because Thanos offers.

In the dead of night, Thanos brings him down to the dungeons and gives him leave of five minutes to speak to his brother.

Warily, he approaches the cell at the end of the corridor. He finds Thor sleeping soundly on a cot in the corner, his chest moving with the rise and fall of his lungs.

Loki’s heart lurches with relief at the knowledge that Thor truly lives. He lifts his hands to grip the cold metal of the bars of the cell and pulls himself closer to watch his brother sleep.

At the movement, Thor’s eyelids drag open. “Loki?” His voice groans in its disuse.

“It’s me,” Loki says.

As if in slow motion, Thor rolls his head onto its side. The drugs promised to load his system show in the weariness of his face and in his blurred, empty eyes. Undeterred, his gaze narrows on Loki’s face.

Under his watch Loki can almost feel the dark circles surrounding his eyes, the hollow of his cheekbones, the sag of his skin. Thor is seeing him so weathered and broken, and he hates it. He tries for a smile. “I’m fine,” he says.

A frown disturbs his brother’s dazed features, but he doesn’t argue.

It hardly seems he has the energy to move at all.

Loki tightens his hold on the bars of the cell. “I’m sorry,” he says. The words awaken something raw and sharp in his heart. Tears he no longer thought he had rise to sting the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry. This was all my—you were right. I’m sorry.”

Thor’s arm tenses as if to lift, to reach, but it falls back to the bed unused. He merely manages to shake his head.

Unassured, Loki presses his lips together. “I’ll figure this out,” he promises. “I’ll find a way.”

Even as he speaks, he has no ideas, no plan. With his magic barred behind Thanos’ power and with Thor drugged to near unconsciousness, he can’t think of any way they can possibly escape. And with the casket in Thanos’ possession, will there even be a home to return to?

Still Thor gives him a weak smile, even as his eyelids droop shut. “I know you will,” he murmurs, half in sleep.

And Loki knows he has to try.

Later though.

For now, Loki simply watches over his brother and tries to forget the nightmare lurking ahead.


End file.
